


The Last Time

by LeetheT



Category: The Man from UNCLE
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Last Time

Illya Kuryakin sat on a crate on the wharf, swinging his sneaker-clad feet and humming snatches of “On the Street Where You Live” in between swigs from a bottle of the cheapest vodka he could stand. The few workers still around at this hour noticed him, but gave him no trouble. The security guard was on the other end of the long industrial docks, and no one else had a stake in shooing away a harmless drunk.

Almost no one. Illya scratched his head through the itchy black knitted cap and peered toward Filipe Castiglione’s warehouse. It was the last in a long line; the grassy headland beyond the docks stuck out south of it. Castiglione had his own security guards: two circling the warehouse, widdershins, and one at the end of the pier where a cabin cruiser bobbed. The guards had gotten used to Illya’s presence over the last several nights; he didn’t cross their event horizon, and they ignored him, but he had no doubt that they’d do their shooing with the .45s tucked in their belts if he looked like he was coming too close.

Which he fully intended to do. Tonight.

Castiglione was a major arms trafficker, new to the game and daring. He had a penchant for selling to particularly unstable Third World nations, but he wasn’t averse to supplying American criminals with the kind of firepower that made policemen cringe. After several unsuccessful attempts to pin down his base of operations, the FBI, teeth gritted, had asked UNCLE to help. Tonight, Illya hoped, would be the end of five weeks of searching and playacting. After much finagling and delay, they had an inside man. The inside man was setting up a deal with Castiglione at this moment, if all was well. Once UNCLE moved in, they’d have Castiglione, his men, and a damning cache of automatic weapons and other ordnance. Tonight. If all was well.

Illya focused on a brief, fierce wish that all was well, then took another swig of vodka. Castiglione’s reputation preceded him like a funeral procession. He was a maverick, violent and possibly insane. If he even suspected the set-up, their inside man would be the first to die.

~*~*~

The door to the warehouse office opened to reveal a burly man dressed as a dockworker — except for the bulge under his arm indicating he was carrying a gun.

Filipe Castiglione rose from his desk and held out a hand. “This is my foreman, Enzo Tocca. Enzo, this is Mr. Peter Stone. He’s interested in buying some of our product.”

“If it’s everything rumor says it is,” Napoleon Solo cut in, shaking the foreman’s gnarled hand. “I have a number of clients, and I need a great deal of ... ah ... product moved very quickly.”

“That’s our specialty,” Castiglione said. “Mr. Stone would like a tour of the facilities, Enzo.”

“Yes sir,” Tocca said, gesturing for Napoleon to precede him into the warehouse proper.

~*~*~

The guards circled round the building, each moving away from him. Illya pocketed the fifth of vodka and hopped down from the crate. He staggered a little as he crossed the dock to melt into the shadows between Castiglione’s warehouse and the antiques warehouse next to it. There he ducked behind a pile of empty crates and withdrew his communicator.

“Open Channel A,” he whispered.

“Torgerson,” a voice came back.

“How are things on your end?” Illya asked.

Torgerson said, “Quiet. Castiglione and his pigeon arrived 45 minutes ago. Nothing since.”

“All right. I’m getting into position. I won’t be able to see the road; you’ll need to coordinate our people when they arrive. There’s a cruiser at the pier. Make sure both sides are covered.”

“Yes sir. On your signal,” Torgerson confirmed.

“Kuryakin out.” Illya stood up, looked up and down the narrow alley made by the two warehouses, then darted across to the access ladder that led to the roof of Castiglione’s building.

~*~*~

Napoleon wondered if he’d ever seen so much firepower assembled in one room in his life. In just those crates within view he saw weapons from Italy, Germany, the Soviet Union and the good old U. S. of A. Whoever Castiglione’s connections were, they were widespread.

“Very impressive,” he said, breathing in the scents of oil, steel and wood. Though he didn’t allow his eyes to wander, he knew that, somewhere up above, Illya was finding a way in, a way to convey to the UNCLE assault team that the evidence they needed was in the building before they closed in on Castiglione. About a dozen people moved about in the distant shadows of the warehouse, all of them, Napoleon thought, probably armed and dangerous.

“All in mint condition,” Castiglione said, beaming as he lightly caressed the oiled surface of an M-16 in its bed of excelsior. “Ammunition to match. All new, professionally done. No backshed reloads.”

Napoleon grinned. “Do you offer a guarantee?”

Castiglione laughed his grating, machine-gun rattle. Enzo Tocca smiled.

“Sure!” Castiglione cried. “If you kill a guy with one of my guns and he don’t stay dead, I’ll give you your money back.” He clapped Napoleon on the back and they laughed together.

_Come on, Illya_ , Napoleon thought, acutely aware he was unarmed. Even if he had worn a gun here in his guise as a weapons buyer, Castiglione’s men would have disarmed him as a standard precaution.

A muddle of shouts came from somewhere overhead; many voices, but Napoleon cursed inside to recognize his partner’s distinctive tones, even raised in feigned drunken protest. Castiglione and Tocca looked up; Napoleon did the same, seeing two men hauling his ragged partner down a long metal stair from the upper levels. He was struggling but clearly being careful to not seem either too sober or too capable.

Castiglione glared murder at the dusty drunk his men brought forward. The guards’ pistols were in their hands; their jackets were damp, spotted with water.

“What’s going on?”

“We found this guy on the roof. Donno how he got up there, he’s drunk as a skunk.” He shoved Illya forward. The Russian staggered, caught himself, looking up under his brows and bangs at Castiglione. “Rick caught him crawling in one of the vents above; this guy knocked him off the roof. He’s dead.”

“It was an accident!” Illya shouted, eyes darting wildly from one man to another. “I just wanted to get in out of the rain.”

Napoleon knew knocking Castiglione’s man off the roof hadn’t been an accident; Illya excelled at defending himself without looking as if he knew how. He cursed to himself; they had not expected guards on the roof. Obvious in retrospect. But they might still salvage this.

“You killed one of my men?” Castiglione asked, incredulous.

“It was an accident!” Illya mumbled, not meeting the man’s gaze. “I bumped him. He grabbed me. He scared me. I just wanted to get under cover. It was starting to rain.” A guard shoved him to his knees. Napoleon slid his hands into his pockets, not shifting otherwise. He wondered if they would search Illya, if his partner’d had time to hide his communicator.

Castiglione looked at his guards, who shrugged.

“He’s stinkin’ drunk,” one said. “And it is raining.”

“But he killed Rick?” Castiglione repeated, then bent to look closer at Illya. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

Illya hunched over. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

The guard at his left backhanded him to the floor. Illya stayed there, curled up, hands over his ears. “I didn’t do nothing!” he wailed. The guard kicked him in the ribs. Napoleon’s hands knotted in his pockets.

“Who are you?” Castiglione repeated.

The guard kicked Illya again. “Answer him!”

Illya curled tighter; the guard moved to kick him in the back. Napoleon heard the soft grunt of pain. The guard did too; he smiled, drawing his foot back again.

“This is ridiculous,” Napoleon said finally, and the guard stopped. “He’s just a bum. Leave him alone. We have business to discuss.”

“You’re right,” Castiglione said, turning to the guards. “Kill him.”

The guard drew his gun. Napoleon casually interposed himself between him and Illya. “No bloodshed,” he said to Castiglione, keeping his tone bored, distasteful. “I’m superstitious. It will mar our deal. Kill him later, after we’ve shaken hands and had a celebratory toast.”

He’d done enough research on Castiglione to know the man had a superstitious streak, the product of a strictly religious upbringing from which he’d wavered slightly in adulthood. Castiglione looked at the man he knew as Peter Stone, smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Okay. I think you’re right. He’s not worth the trouble.” To his guards he said, “Lock him up in the storeroom. Once our esteemed client and I have settled matters to our satisfaction, we’ll take care of this little problem.”

Illya got to his hands and knees and the guards pulled him all the way upright. Blood trickled from his cut lip, and he held his left arm pressed close against the ribs the guard had kicked. His unfocused eyes wandered from man to man, showing incomprehension and fear Napoleon knew weren’t real. The pain, though, probably was.

Castiglione took his arm. “Let’s go back to my office and get down to business.”

A bell rang out, strident, insistent. Everyone started.

“What the hell?” Castiglione looked around wildly.

“Security breach,” one of the guards said. They let go of Illya as one of them pulled out a walkie talkie, snapped into it.

It took Castiglione a minute to process the information. “The cops?”

A voice crackled out of the walkie talkie in the guard’s hands. “We got a guy out here. UNCLE agent.”

Castiglione froze, cursed acidly.  Workers throughout the warehouse were looking around themselves, panicked, not sure what to do, where to run.

“What’s going on?” Napoleon said.

“UNCLE,” Castiglione spat, again scanning his warehouse, chock full of evidence against him.

“We need to get out of here, sir,” the guard said to Castiglione. Illya inched to the side, slow, hangdog.

“Castiglione,” Napoleon snapped. “What’s happening? A raid?”

The man waved vaguely at Napoleon, backing away. “Sorry about this, Stone. If you’re smart, you’ll get out too.” He beckoned the guards. “Come on!” The three of them ran for the exit.

Illya straightened up, his dim, drunken stare clearing to sharp-eyed annoyance.

“Someone blew it,” Napoleon answered the irritation in his partner’s eyes.

“At least it wasn’t me,” Illya countered.

Napoleon touched Illya’s arm. “Are you OK? We’d better get after him.” He ran after Castiglione, Illya trailing. They jogged amongst innumerable boxes and crates, headed for the seaside loading doors.

“The cruiser,” Illya gasped out.

Napoleon cursed, slowed to take his partner’s arm again, steadying him. “What the hell happened? How’d they spot us?”

Illya, bent to one side to favor his injured ribs, shook his head. “I don’t know. But our people are close. If—”

A slamming noise, as of a door being hammered open, echoed through the warehouse, followed by the sound of gunfire.

Napoleon spared Illya a half smile, then scanned the crowded warehouse seeking the exit. “The cavalry. I hope they’re not too late. There!” He ran for the door.

They burst out onto the dock — Illya bumping into Napoleon from behind — to see Castiglione’s cruiser motoring away from the pier at full speed. Rain spat down on the docks.

“Son of a bitch,” Napoleon snapped. A bullet whinged past, reminding him that both he and Illya were unarmed and about to be in the middle of a gunbattle. He turned, grabbing his partner’s arm and shouting, “Let’s get out of the line of fire.” They ran for the cover of the trees dotting the grassy headland just north of the Castiglione warehouse, shouts and scattered gunfire loud behind them.

Napoleon glanced back to see Illya take a dive, tumbling onto the grass. He stopped, reversed direction and bent to lift his partner up.

“Come on. This is no time to get lazy.” Illya leaned heavily on him, breathing audibly, one arm again pressed to his side. Napoleon carried him up the grassy headland a little way and behind a tree, where he could see and at the same time keep them both out of the line of fire.

He eased Illya onto the wet grass and knelt beside him, watching UNCLE teams circling the warehouse, hearing the occasional soft pop of the UNCLE specials. An UNCLE cruiser bobbed in the harbor. Too late. Castiglione and his top people were gone; they’d get nothing but flunkies tonight for their trouble.

Illya’s arm had fallen away from his side.

“Jesus...” Napoleon breathed. Illya’s torso, his clothes, the grass beside him were sticky-wet with blood. “Illya.”

Napoleon scanned his partner’s body, located the source; a hole below the last rib on his left side. Stray bullet.

Suddenly cold, Napoleon pressed one hand against the hole, feeling his partner’s body spasm at the pain of it. He lifted Illya, held him against him.

“Hang on. They’re coming ...” He scanned the area frantically. UNCLE teams were swarming all over the building, spreading everywhere. Napoleon wasn’t sure how the operation had been blown, but at least Waverly had pulled out all the stops to salvage what he could.

A paneled truck pulled up to the warehouse, disgorging several UNCLE emergency medical personnel, who looked around at the devastation, temporarily at a loss.

Napoleon shouted, “Over here!” then lowered his head. Illya’s face was ghastly in the dim light. “Hold on, partner. Help’s on the way.” He pressed his palm harder against the hole in Illya’s side. Blood everywhere.

He cursed softly, methodically. For the sake of not blowing his cover — for the sake of the mission — he’d stood there and watched his partner being beaten. He might just as well have stopped it then and there, for all the good it had done.

The med team jogged across the grass toward them.

“Napoleon...” His partner’s voice interrupted his stream of muttered invective. One hand came feebly up to clutch at his jacket, then Illya went limp in Napoleon’s embrace.

“No.” Napoleon pulled his partner tighter against his chest, the icy fire of fear in his stomach. “Don’t you leave me, god damn it.” This thing had gone to hell; if he lost his partner over the foul-up, it would be the costliest mistake UNCLE had ever made.

He bent his head to Illya’s ear, shaking. “Stay with me. Stay with me.”

He shifted out of the way to let the UNCLE paramedics work, but when they lifted Illya’s body onto the gurney and headed for the ambulance, he returned to his partner’s side, repeating those words from time to time as they raced through the streets, with no idea if Illya could still hear him, or feel Napoleon’s hand clenched around his wrist.

~*~*~

He followed the medics into the elevator and out of it, into UNCLE Medical. They stopped him at the doors to the surgery, and he made himself stay there, out of the way. Illya was wheeled into the room and surrounded by medical personnel, the quiet babel of efficiency. Napoleon knew UNCLE’s team was the best. Considering their clientele, they had to be.

Machines were pushed around Illya, various lines attached. Through long experience, Napoleon had a working knowledge of the language of emergency medicine, but right now the words clamored in his head, meaningless.

The monitor buzzed harshly, an electronic warning of death. The doctor and the nurse sprinted to the bedside.

“His heart’s stopped,” Dr. Baker snapped. “Come on.”

Napoleon’s heart stopped as well. He stood at the doors, stiff, body and soul yearning toward the still form that had disappeared behind a tight knot of frantically working men and women; the air rang with their arcane technical commands. Someone shut the doors in his face and he jumped back, jolted, then moved to the side, to the one-way observation window. White-clad backs bent; white-sleeved arms reached. What was left of rational thought held him in place when everything else he was made of pushed him toward his partner. _Please..._

~*~*~

Dr. Baker came out, pulled off his mask and wiped his brow with it, throwing it into a wastebasket against the wall. Napoleon leaned toward him.

“He’s alive,” Baker said, tone rough with weariness. “I think he’ll be OK.”

Napoleon blinked — only once, he thought — and Dr. Baker was beside him, one hand on his arm, easing him backward.

“Sit down, Napoleon. It’s been a long day for you too.”

Napoleon sat, sighing out a half-laugh at Baker’s understatement. He eased his heavy body onto a couch and the doctor sat beside him.

“He’s being moved to intensive care. Give them a few minutes to get him settled before you plant your flag, will you?”

Napoleon shook his head, rubbing his gritty eyes. “You’re psychic.”

“You’re predictable. The result looks the same to the untrained eye.” Baker patted him on the shoulder. “If I were you, and I’m glad I’m not, I’d get a shower and a sandwich before you take up residency at your partner’s bedside.” He got up and pulled Napoleon to his feet. “Go on. I’m no doctor, but it looks pretty good.” He shoved Napoleon toward the doors.

~*~*~

 “Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon blinked, shifted. He’d fallen asleep, his forehead resting on the edge of his partner’s hospital bed. He straightened up and looked at Illya. Still unconscious, as he had been for most of the 26 hours Napoleon had been there. He’d stirred a few times, even opened his eyes briefly, but had never fully awakened.

“Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon turned around to see one of the girls from the secretarial pool in the doorway. Teresa, he recalled, a tall dark-haired girl with a nice smile. One hand on the doorframe, she shifted hesitantly from foot to foot, not wanting to enter, to intrude.

“Mr. Waverly sent me to ask you to come up to his office. There’s a message for you.”

Napoleon got up with a stifled groan, gave his partner one last glance, and followed Teresa out.

~*~*~

 “Sit down, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said. “How is your partner?”

“Dr. Baker thinks he’ll be all right,” Napoleon said, as if he were discussing a stranger. “He hasn’t awakened yet.” He waited, standing, anxious.

“You’ll perhaps be marginally interested to know that Castiglione got away. We got his people, of course, for what that’s worth.”

“What tipped them off?”

“Mr. Torgerson. He was discovered on the perimeter. He managed to warn us that he’d been spotted. Then they killed him.”

Napoleon thought: _Good. That saves me having to do it._ But he knew it wasn’t solely Torgerson’s fault. Their preliminary investigation regarding the number and placement of guards had been either inaccurate or outdated.

Waverly said, “We’ve received a message. For you. Personal.” He slid an envelope across the desk. Napoleon picked it up and ripped it open, pulling out a letter. It was from an attorney, a man named Fricke. The name rang no bells. He read the short note twice.

“My Aunt Amy has died,” he said. He was surprised that he felt nothing more than a quiet startled sadness. Aunt Amy had been elderly and had lived a full life, but he had been fond of her, though he saw her seldom. Surely he should be feeling more than this. “The letter’s from her lawyer. About the will. Apparently she left me everything.”

“My condolences, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said.

“I’ll have to go see him,” Napoleon said. _Damn it_. He didn’t want to leave right now.

“Go,” Waverly said. “We’ll inform you if there is any change in Mr. Kuryakin’s condition.”

~*~*~

Napoleon stopped in Medical on his way out; Dr. Baker was in Illya’s room, checking him.

“How is he?” Napoleon asked.

Dr. Baker straightened up from bending over Illya. “He’s resting comfortably.” He looked at Napoleon, at the letter crumpled in his hand. “He’s no longer in any danger, Mr. S. If you have laundry to do or something, feel free to trust him to our tender mercies for a few hours.” He left.

Napoleon went to his partner’s side, looked down at the wan, peaceful face, the shadows under the eyes. The only time he was able to look at Illya like this, he realized, was when his partner was asleep or unconscious. He looked so small. And young. He was 37, Napoleon 39. They’d been together nearly 10 years. Those years didn’t show on Illya’s face, even now. Maybe they didn’t show much on his own, Napoleon thought, but he felt every one of them today.

He reached out to touch Illya’s arm, realized he was still clutching the letter in that hand. He shoved it into his pocket and held onto his partner’s sturdy wrist for a moment.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered.

~*~*~

 “Your aunt was a very wealthy woman, Mr. Solo,” the lawyer said. “You’re very fortunate.”

Napoleon scanned the papers before him, the long list of the things his aunt had owned, things that now belonged to him. As his eyes moved down the page, he forgot each item in seeing the next, so that at the end he had nothing more than an impression of oppressive clutter and a sensation of wasted time.

“I understand you work for the U.N.C.L.E.,” Fricke, the lawyer, said. “Dangerous work, I would imagine.”

Napoleon glanced at him, let his gaze fall again on the papers. Cottage, Rio de Janeiro. Goya. Scott, 1,000 shares (what sort of company? he wondered idly). Flat, Monte Carlo.

“You won’t have to work again,” the lawyer said, sliding a pile of keys over to him. “The keys to the Rolls and the apartment.”

Napoleon picked them up.

“You’ll have to decide what to do about her staff as well. She has a gardener, cook, two maids—”

Napoleon couldn’t be bothered thinking about it right now. “They can stay.”

“She was an elderly woman. You might prefer—”

“They can stay,” he repeated, rising from the chair. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Fricke. I’ll be in touch.”

~*~*~

He returned to headquarters to check on his partner. Still asleep. He sat beside him and watched Illya’s chest rise and fall for 15 minutes. The faint light from the hallway glinted on his hair. He stirred then, shifting a little, and Napoleon got up, leaning over him. Illya’s eyes drifted open, dazed, and his face tightened in the faintest of smiles before they closed again. Napoleon touched his partner’s cool cheek with his fingertips, and the smile returned briefly, though Illya seemed to be asleep.

~*~*~

The doorman let him in. He walked quickly through the cool marble lobby and told the lift attendant he was going to the penthouse. The man touched his cap and did his job.

The doors opened on a corridor paneled in blond wood, carpeted in grey, a strangely modern combination in such an old building. A skylight in the hall showed blackness and stars.

“That way, sir,” the lift operator said, pointing to the left. The hallway bent about 45 degrees. Two tall potted palms framed the double doors at the end.

Napoleon pulled out the key and unlocked the door, flipping on the light in the hallway. A short marble entry led to more double doors, these with etched glass panels in them. Left and right, corridors with arched ceilings led to other rooms.

Napoleon went straight ahead, opened the glass doors and found himself in a large sitting room, facing a corner marble fireplace framed by huge, arched windows, curtains wide. French doors in the center of each wall opened out onto the private roof gardens, nothing but humped, irregular shapes in the darkness. The city’s lights twinkled beyond.

The last time he’d stood in this room had been nearly a year before. Illya had been in Budapesth and Aunt Amy had invited him to lunch. She’d been nearly eighty; they’d traded tales of their travels and romantic adventures, almost like two old men, over their salad and salmon and chardonnay. Napoleon had had a wonderful time, for a few hours almost forgetting his partner’s absence.

“No true love?” he’d asked her, meaning nothing by it at first.

She smiled. “I found love a few times. Not unlike my infamous nephew.”

He returned her smile.

“But not true love,” she admitted. “No true love, no true peace.” Her gaze wandered in affectionate memory around the room, lined tastefully with its mementos of a life well spent. “Not for either of us.” The eyes returned to his. “Not yet, at least.”

“Is it love, or peace, you’re expecting?” he asked, as her butler came in with the coffee and desserts.

“For myself? Neither. Oh, the peace of my final rest, of course, but I wasn’t referring to that.” She waved a hand as the butler hesitated in pouring the coffee. “Thank you, Morgan. My staff gets uneasy when I talk about that. But I was referring to you.”

Napoleon accepted his coffee and waited ‘til the butler had gone to say, “I don’t expect either for myself. My job wouldn’t allow it if I did.”

She smiled narrowly at him. “ _You_ get uneasy when I talk about _that_ , don’t you? You have the capacity for true love, Napoleon. I hope you don’t let your job with UNCLE keep you from it. Your work is important. But in the end it will not keep you from a lonely old age.”

Napoleon smiled, thinking he was unlikely to see old age, lonely or not. “It might, aunt.”

He remembered standing on the street in front of the hotel afterward, waiting for a cab, sated and almost content, wishing only that Illya could have been there. His aunt had never met him, but he thought she would have liked him, and he her.

He stood now in the darkened room, feeling the age, the weight of elegance and history and wealth that surrounded him.

He loved — craved — his job at UNCLE. Making a real difference. But he had always worked at least partly because he had to. Now, he didn’t have to. He didn’t have to try to make a difference. He didn’t have to get shot at. He was 39. He’d have to stop soon anyway. Now he could stop completely. Separate himself from UNCLE, if he chose. He could leave it behind: the blood, the danger, the intimacy with evil.

In the dimness something, a lamp or a vase or a candlestick, caught the light from the hall and glinted, pale gold. He paused, caught, and his soul vomited up the fear he’d kept down from the moment he’d seen Illya’s blood on the grass, on his hands.

His legs wavered and he sank down onto the couch, curling inward. He clutched his head in one hand and sobs ripped their way out of his gut to poison the staid air of the room.

~*~*~

Illya Kuryakin awoke to soft voices in the hall outside his hospital room.

“He hasn’t even been in for two days.”

April’s voice.

“He was in the old man’s office for three hours the other day.”

That was Tony Alberti, another section two agent. Illya sat up slowly. He felt weak, a little nauseated, but in no incapacitating pain. He had a vague memory of Napoleon’s presence, but he was alone in his darkened hospital room. That — not the darkness, but the solitude — felt wrong. _Do you expect Napoleon to hover by your bedside for days while you sleep?_ his brain mocked, but his heart said _yes_.

“He said his aunt died. Something about an inheritance.”

Tony chuckled. “Lucky stiff. No more daily grind for our CEA.”

Illya, sliding his legs off the bed, froze.

“Millions, he said,” April went on. “That must have been what he was talking to Mr. Waverly about.”

“Went in to quit,” Tony said confidently. “Who wouldn’t? We won’t be seeing him around here again. Too bad. We need him more than the blue bloods do.”

“Yes,” April said.

“What are you two doing lurking out here in the hall?” Dr. Baker’s voice was startlingly loud.

“We wanted to see Illya,” April said. “Is it all right? Can he have visitors?”

“He can if he wants to,” Baker said.

The door opened slowly and April’s face peeked around its edge. When she saw him she came in and flicked on the light.

“What are you doing up?” she said, arms akimbo, then answered her own question. “Never mind. You’re just being Illya.”

Dr. Baker and Tony followed her lead, into both the room and indignation.

“Are you crazy?” Tony said. “You almost died.”

“He did die, if you want to stretch a point a little,” Dr. Baker said. “Mr. Kuryakin, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be up so soon.” He came to Illya’s side and tried to coax him horizontal. Illya pulled his arm out of Baker’s grasp.

“How long —” Illya coughed, cleared his throat. “How long have I been here?”

“Eight days,” Dr. Baker said. “You were out for most of the first five. Do you remember anything?”

“I remember everything,” he said. “I want to ...” For some reason, perhaps the tremors of weakness he felt throughout his body, he modified his demand. “I’d like to finish recuperating at home, if that’s possible.”

Dr. Baker rolled his eyes. “Let me check you out. If everything looks okay and you promise to follow my instructions and take your medicine like a good boy, you can go home.”

Illya scowled at him. “Who are you and what have you done with Dr. Baker?”

Baker snorted a soft laugh. “I’ve learned it’s fruitless to argue with you people.”

He turned to April and Tony. “You two. You’ve got five minutes. Visit away. I’ll be back.” He left.

April approached, touched Illya’s arm lightly. “Is there any point in saying you should stay here?”

“No,” he said. He wanted to get up and get dressed, but there was no point if he was facing an examination. He might as well wait.

“Look, don’t make us call Napoleon,” Tony threatened. “He’ll make you stay put.”

“Where is he?” Illya asked then, carefully casual.

April said, “I don’t know. I don’t think he’s in the office right now. He’s been in and out the last few days.”

“Before that he was _in_ ,” Tony said, pointing to the chair next to the hospital bed. “At least we knew where to find him.”

“A relative of his passed away,” April said. “An aunt.”

“His Aunt Amy,” Illya supplied.

“That’s the name,” April said. “I think he’s dealing with that right now.”

She sounded apologetic, as if she felt she had to justify Napoleon’s absence to him. Did everyone think they were joined at the hip? More irritating was the idea that she imagined she could explain Napoleon’s actions to Illya. No one knew Napoleon better than he did, Illya thought, defensive also at the thought that he might look as if he needed an explanation.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, coolly polite, then: “What is the latest on Castiglione?”

~*~*~

An hour later, he stopped at the receptionist’s desk to unload his badge. He pulled the plastic triangle from his pocket and held it out to Teresa, the receptionist on duty — then stopped, seeing Napoleon’s badge in its usual place. He was struck, suddenly, with the fancy that it would never leave this little shelf again. Or that if it did, it would be on the lapel of someone else.

Though his hesitation was momentary, Teresa clearly noticed it. She took his badge and placed it next to Napoleon’s, shifting number 27 to do so.

“Mr. Solo was here this morning for a while. About three a.m.,” she said, as if Illya had asked.

“Three a.m.?” Illya repeated blankly. “What for?”

“To see you. He’s been in and out at odd hours for a week now. Sometimes in his office, but mostly to sit with you. He looks very tired. I asked him when he was planning on sleeping. He said he’d sleep when you woke up.”  She touched the hidden switch that opened the door from the inside. It swung inward, revealing the changing room of Del Floria’s. She glanced up at him, smiled. “Have a nice day, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Outside Del Floria’s, he hailed a taxi and considered his options. He felt stupid going to Napoleon’s, searching for his partner like a sick child reaching for a teddy bear, but if he went straight home, in his state, he wouldn’t have the energy to leave again. That decided him; he gave the cab driver Napoleon’s address and settled against the slick, cold seat back.

~*~*~

Napoleon’s front door was open, the myriad security devices stripped away. Illya drew his UNCLE Special and slid his back against the wall, peering around the edge of the doorway.

A man stood on a small stepladder, painting the hallway a bland off-white. Illya lowered his gun to his side and moved to where he could see around the painter, down the hall.

Empty. Furniture gone, curtains gone, carpet gone. Two cans of paint and a crumpled, colorfully speckled dropcloth stood in the middle of the living room.

Illya holstered his gun and moved fully into the doorway, startling the painter.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry, mister. Can I help you with something?” He climbed down the ladder, dropped the roller into the pan at his feet.

“I was looking for Mr. Solo,” he said, sidling past the painter into the living room. The smell of paint was strong despite the open windows.

“He’s gone.”

Illya looked around the naked apartment, bewildered.

“Moved out a week ago. Struck it rich, I heard. Aunt died and left him a fortune. Lucky fella.” The painter stopped beside him, surveying the room. “You need anything?”

Illya looked at the man for a long, blank moment.

“Mister?”

The Russian said, “No,” and walked out of the apartment.

~*~*~

Napoleon stared at the empty hospital bed.

“He checked himself out,” Dr. Baker said. “Today. Not two hours ago. Didn’t he tell you?”

“I’ve been out of touch,” Napoleon said, tweaked by guilt. “Is he okay?”

Dr. Baker shrugged. “Weak. He’ll live to nearly get killed on another mission.”

Napoleon moved toward the door. “Thank you.”

~*~*~

Illya took the elevator, an admission of weakness easier because he was alone. His apartment door was ajar. He drew his gun and stood to one side to shove the door open.

“It’s only me.”

The familiar voice, for some unaccountable reason, brought a prickle to his eyes. Blinking it away, he moved into his apartment.

Napoleon sat on the back of his couch, looking thin and haggard, smiling tentatively, head a little tilted in apology. He wore a blue sweater and jeans, surprisingly casual.

“I ... ah ... let myself in.”

“A cosy euphemism for breaking and entering.” Illya reholstered his gun and set his keys on the hall table.

“What are you doing out and about so soon?” Napoleon asked.

“I heard a rumor,” Illya said. “I wanted to investigate it.”

“Mr. Waverly shouldn’t be sending you ...” Napoleon began, puzzled and irate.

“A personal rumor,” Illya cut in. He paused, feeling himself getting angry. _You have no right. He owes you no explanations for what he does or does not do when we’re not working._

“Are you all right?” Napoleon said, moving to rise from the couch.

Carefully he said, “Yes. I’m sorry about your aunt.”

Understanding erased Napoleon’s scowl. “Oh. Yes. She left me her estate.” He eased himself back down.

Illya waited. _Don’t ask, it isn’t your business_. But he couldn’t help waiting, a kind of silent asking.

“It’s a lot,” Napoleon said.

“Congratulations,” Illya said.

Napoleon got up. Illya was surprised to see the car keys dancing over Napoleon’s fingers. _If I didn’t know better I would think he was ... nervous._

“Will you come and see the apartment?” Napoleon asked. Illya blinked.

“What?”

“I mean, if you’re up to it.” He glanced around himself as if for moral support, but found none. His usual moral support was standing across the room. “I’d like ... I want you to see it, and I ... we need to talk.”

“Yes.” Illya’s word, more emphatic than he’d intended, drew his partner’s focus. He moderated his tone. “I’d like to see it.”

Napoleon gestured toward the door. “Then shall we?”

In the corridor, Napoleon grasped his arm. “I know you prefer the stairs, but I think you should take it easy for a while.”

The gentle command in his tone and actions would have melted any resistance Illya might have felt. He didn’t trouble to say he’d have taken the elevator anyway, only let his partner lead him to the lift doors. Even the usual sarcastic “yes mother” wouldn’t come to his lips. Napoleon’s bossy solicitude was one of the things he would miss most.

~*~*~

Illya stopped when he saw the Rolls, flicked a look at his partner, started walking again.

Napoleon unlocked the passenger door and opened it, then went to the driver’s side. Illya marveled to see his partner’s expression of faint embarrassment, rather than the pride he normally demonstrated when showing off any of the finer things he had acquired. He recalled that April had said “millions,” but that to him, Napoleon had only said, dismissively, “It’s a lot.”

“It had a full tank,” he explained when they’d gotten in, “and my car was empty.”

“This is your car too, now,” Illya said. “I assume.” He looked around the plush tan interior. “Your aunt took good care of her things.”

“Better than I do of mine,” Napoleon muttered with a bitter tone that startled Illya. He knew Napoleon took excellent care of his possessions. “At least, better than I do of you.”

Illya wasn’t about to take that in silence, though he thought, in a mixture of wonder and annoyance, _do I belong to you?_

Flatly he said, “If anyone else were my partner I would be dead.”

Napoleon glanced at him and his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“It’s the truth and you know it,” Illya growled. “I don’t want to hear you say that again.” _If he leaves UNCLE, you won’t. Not that or anything else._

“Sorry,” Napoleon said. “I can’t help thinking that ... if I had—”

“If you had what? The ability to see the future? To deflect bullets with your thoughts?” Napoleon smiled against his will, and Illya went on. “To leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

Napoleon finally chuckled. “Okay. I hate seeing you get hurt, all right?”

“Then at least one of us is in the wrong line of work.” Illya slumped down in his seat.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you the last few days,” Napoleon began, awkward. “I’ve been pretty occupied with ... all this.” He waved vaguely over the walnut dashboard.

“It doesn’t matter,” Illya said. “I realize that life goes on even when I’m flat on my back in a hospital bed.”

“But I wanted to be there when you woke up.”

Illya sighed softly. “If you need to chastise yourself, I won’t try to stop you. But it really doesn’t matter. I know that you are always there when it matters.” _At least, until now_. But he couldn’t say that in the face of Napoleon’s obvious distress, even if he couldn’t fathom the reason for that distress. He had his own distress to carry right now.

“I wanted to get all this nonsense settled before you got out,” Napoleon said, and chuckled while Illya was puzzling over that remark. “I should have known you’d check yourself out long before you should.”

“I presume by ‘all this nonsense’ you mean your change in circumstances.”

Napoleon nodded. “There’s been a lot of paperwork. Then ... I decided it would be foolish to stay where I was, so once security cleared this building I moved in.”

“I went to your old place,” Illya said, then cursed himself for a weak fool. _What do you want, guilt? He’ll give you that._

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there when you woke up so I could explain all of this.” Napoleon pulled into the parking garage of the Alexandria Park Hotel.

“You don’t owe me any explanations,” Illya said. That drew a sharp, almost angry glance, before Napoleon needed to pay attention to parking in the confines of the garage. He slid the Rolls into a spot marked “Solo” and said carefully:

“I think you’ll have to let me decide what I feel I owe you.”

Illya clamped his jaw against the automatic protest that his partner owed him nothing; it would be unkind to throw Napoleon’s expressions of caring, however oblique, back in his face out of something as foolish as embarrassment.

_And if he is simply trying to clear his conscience before saying good-bye? What then? What will you say? Will you try to talk him into staying? Will you tell him the truth? Will you tell him what you tried to tell him when you thought you were going to die?_

The problem with that approach, Illya thought as he climbed out of the car, was that he didn’t know if it would make Napoleon stay or run even faster.

~*~*~

The lobby was old-fashioned, done in oak and mahogany and marble and gilded mirrors. Napoleon headed for the elevators, not looking around. Illya recalled he’d been here numerous times before; no doubt he was used to the grandeur. Especially of late. Illya didn’t look about either, though he noticed everything, particularly the lobby clerk and the elevator operator, who stared curiously at them.

~*~*~

Napoleon opened the doors and ushered him into the sitting room. Illya let himself take it all in as he walked through, thinking nothing, merely cataloguing. Antiques and modern pieces, chosen by a talented hand, blended into a decor elegant without being stilted.

The electric lights glowed golden in the wall sconces. The open french doors let in the fragrance of lavender, rose and night-blooming jasmine from the rooftop garden. The 20 feet between the penthouse and the outer railing provided a soothing buffer of green between the apartment and the city.

He touched the paneling, letting his fingers trail along the smooth oak, noting the craftsmanship in the ornate doorknob and hinges. Something about the turn-of-the-century style suited Napoleon. There had always been an old world charm and elegance about his partner, alongside a very modern aura of danger and lethal confidence. Throw in dashes of reckless courage, boyish enthusiasm and steely honor ... Illya shook his head at himself. He had long since stopped sifting Napoleon’s myriad traits in search of that one magic element that had made his feelings cross over from friendship to love. That surrender had spared him no sleepless nights.

“Section Three has started on the security measures, but there’s a lot to be done, and it has to be done carefully in a place this old.”

Illya turned away from the view of the sun sinking behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan. He moved with careful grace back into the apartment, but Napoleon, standing with unaccustomed awkwardness in the middle of the room, wasn’t fooled.

“Are you all right?”

Illya shrugged.

“Sit down.”

Illya sat gently on the edge of the lushly upholstered couch; the softness invited him to lean back, to sink into it. He let his body relax, looked up at Napoleon as his partner sat nine feet away on the wide padded arm of the same sofa.

“It’s beautiful,” Illya said. “What are you going to do with it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean ... you can do what you want now. You don’t have to ... work for a living.”

“I know.” Napoleon’s eyes were fixed on his hands, resting aimlessly on his knees.

“You were meant for a life of leisure,” Illya said.

Napoleon looked sharply at him. “You think that?”

Illya sighed. “Not really. It was a joke.”

Napoleon threw up his hands. “I’m sorry. I ... I’m a little on edge. I’ve had a lot to think about.”

“So I should imagine. Have you come to any conclusions?”

Napoleon stared across the room. “I’ve come to one.”

Illya waited. Napoleon said nothing.

“Tell me,” Illya said finally, weary, thinking, _get it over with_. He was sick of the anticipation of hurt; hurt itself would be almost pleasure beside it.

“I can’t do this any more.”

Illya swallowed. It was one thing to hear office gossip, even to see an empty apartment. Each word from Napoleon’s mouth was a dagger to his heart. _For years I wasn’t sure I had one. Now, I’d give anything to be rid of it._

“What do you mean?” he asked, unable to admit that the bottom had just dropped out of his stomach, his world. _You’ve been afraid to say it for nearly 10 years. Now, it won’t matter. Can you say it now?_

“I can’t stand it,” Napoleon said, softly.

“You mean, UNCLE?” Illya said. It’d been bound to happen eventually. No one was an agent for long, one way or the other. Those who lived burned out. That was the way of it, the inevitability of it. He’d hoped ... he didn’t know for what. For a miracle, that they would burn out at the same time, or die, together, first? He didn’t know.

“Was that what you were so long in Waverly’s office about?” he asked.

Napoleon glanced at him, surprised.

“People were talking,” Illya explained.

“Oh. Yes. We were ... discussing my future,” Napoleon said.

“I understand,” Illya said. He looked at his hands; steady, though he was shaking inside. It would take a while for it to become visible. He should leave before then. “You have everything now.”

“Not if I lose you.”

Illya’s insides grew very still, as if his heart and lungs and other organs had disappeared. What was Napoleon saying?

“All the money in the world can’t prevent that.”  Still not looking at his partner, Napoleon didn’t see Illya’s white-faced shock. “I can’t quit. I don’t even know if I want to. All I know is ...” He inhaled a shuddering breath, spoke more calmly. “All I know is I can’t lose you.” The words were an admission of failure, failure as an agent, a professional.

“While you were in Medical, your heart stopped.” He swallowed visibly, looked at Illya, anguish glinting in his eyes. “There’s a last time for everything. That was it. I ... I’ve become ... weak.”

“No,” Illya whispered.

Napoleon was shaking his head. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not this.”

The pain in his voice pulled at Illya. He got up, felt his feet sink into the thick rug. He felt the opulence around him, the startling change in Napoleon’s circumstances. He could quit if he wanted to. Independent. Truly Solo. Illya thought of the sick, lost feeling in his stomach when he’d seen Napoleon’s empty apartment, when he’d believed himself ... left behind. Discarded.

“I was supposed to just do my job,” Napoleon said. He chuckled drily, his eyes wandering, as if seeking sense, or logic. “Save the world. Then, if I lived, pass the torch on to the next generation of machines.” He glanced up, seeing his partner within a foot of him, and shook his head. “God damn it...” He started to turn away, disgusted with himself, but Illya caught him.

“Napoleon...”

“I went in to Waverly to resign,” Napoleon said, “but I couldn’t. I couldn’t because I knew I had to be with you, beside you, in the field. I can’t quit and trust you to someone else, another partner. I can’t...” His hands opened, speaking futility, and Illya pulled him to his feet, into a fierce hug, feeling Napoleon’s startlement, though he didn’t resist.

“I love you,” Napoleon confessed, not returning the embrace. “More than that. I’ve loved you for a long time, but now, I know ... I don’t want to live without you.”

Illya held him tighter, closer, drunk with incredulity. He had no words to say, no comfort, nothing Napoleon didn’t already know. Except...

“I’ll quit,” he said. Napoleon stiffened, drew back, searching his face with pinched, pained eyes.

“I’m serious,” Illya said. “If that is what you need.”

Napoleon shook his head. “Illya ...”

“We’ll both resign. We’ll take up beekeeping.”

Napoleon smiled weakly. “You and your Sherlockiana.”

“We’ve done as much as any mortal man can do to save the world. I cannot watch it eat at you like this. I cannot be the cause of ... this much pain. Not for you.”

Napoleon stared in wonder, sliding his hands up his partner’s arms to cup his face. “Illya ... you can’t ...”

“I can,” he said stubbornly. “I can and I do. You’re not the only one who can make dramatic decisions.”

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure you heard me clearly.”

“You said you love me,” Illya said flatly.

“Yes. But ...” Napoleon visibly sought for the words. “I meant ...”

“I know what you meant,” Illya said. Napoleon shook his head.

“I don’t think —”

Illya covered his partner’s mouth with his own. Napoleon’s body, stiff with surprise at first, molded warm against Illya’s as the Russian drank deep of the taste and feel of his partner, stroking Napoleon’s tongue with his own once, twice, the contact lightning down his spine. He drew back, a little dizzy, meeting Napoleon’s stunned, sparkling eyes.

“Was that what you meant,” he asked, low, languid, “or should I run for my life?”

Napoleon’s fingers clenched in his sleeves; he pulled Illya against him, moving as if to kiss him — then stopped, his expression twisting.

“Illya ... you ... you can’t mean ...”

“Why not?”

“Because ... because I want it too much.” Napoleon laughed, sourly. “I’m not allowed to have a happy ending.”

Illya dropped his arms. “We don’t have that yet.” Napoleon didn’t unknot his fingers from his partner’s sweater. He searched Illya’s face as if expecting him to take back what he’d just done and said.

“We may never have it,” Illya went on.

Napoleon’s mouth twitched. “Your optimism, as ever, is heartwarming.”

Holding his partner’s gaze, Illya said, “I can live without it if you can.”

Napoleon shook his head, a small motion of wonder, and pulled Illya against him, brushing his lips across his partner’s, lightly at first, then more firmly, followed by his tongue. Illya heard in surprise the sound he himself made as Napoleon’s warm tongue slid between his lips, as Napoleon folded his arms tight around him and left off gentleness for a kiss like brandy down his throat.

Then Napoleon stopped, drawing back a little, not letting him go. Illya clutched at his partner’s arms, reeling.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon said, his voice low, grating. “I ... want you—”

Illya laid his forehead on Napoleon’s collarbone, straining to draw air into his lungs. _Please_.

“—but you aren’t up for it yet.” He eased his tight hold to stroke Illya’s back.

The Russian snarled a curse, but Napoleon was right. After a quiet moment to regain his balance and some level of control, he chuckled softly.

“What is it?”

Illya raised his head, looked at his partner. “All those women ... I thought they were exaggerating.”

Napoleon didn’t smile. Instead he pressed gentle kisses on Illya’s cheekbones.

“No more women.”

“No?”

“There’s a last time for everything.” He slid an arm around Illya’s shoulders. “Come on. You’re shaking, and though I’d like to attribute it to my ... skill, I think it has more to do with the fact that you’ve only been on your feet one day.”

He eased his partner down on the couch, went to one pair of french doors and closed them.

“No,” Illya protested. “The air feels good.”

Napoleon glanced at him thoughtfully, reopened the doors, and collected a throw blanket from a chair to wrap around his partner. He supplemented that with his arms as he sat next to Illya, a little tentative even now, knowing how touchy his partner was about his personal space.

Illya settled against his chest and laid his head on his shoulder, his sigh more exhausted than amorous. Napoleon relaxed. _I’ll take what I can get, for now_. It felt so strange to hold his partner like this, so astonishing, and at the same time familiar as his own body.

“No more women at all?” Illya asked then, and Napoleon grinned.

“I’ve been fighting it — fighting you — for a long time. A long losing battle. Every woman for a long time has been less herself, and more ... not you.”

“I had noticed a preference for blondes in recent years,” Illya said.

“Not just blondes,” Napoleon said. “Surly athletic smart blondes.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t fooling myself for a minute.”

“But all women,” Illya half-stated. He let the question ask itself, and Napoleon said, as if he’d never examined the thought himself until now:

“Yes. I thought about it ... but that would have been too much not you.” He made a puzzled face. “Does that make any sense at all?”

Illya raised his head, scowling faintly. “No.”

“I think I’m saying no one could possibly compare to you,” Napoleon said.

“I hope not,” Illya said. “My stomach’s upset already.” His eyes, tracing Napoleon’s face with warm affection, softened the verbal blow. Napoleon smiled.

“Sentimental as a car accident. That’s my partner. Do you think you should eat something?”

Illya looked around. “Have you anything to eat in this place?”

Napoleon chuckled softly. “I’ll order out. Something from Sardi’s? Delmonico’s? The Russian Tea Room?”

“Oh. I forgot. You’re rich.” Illya gave him a sardonic look.

“If you love me, I am,” Napoleon said.

Illya reddened faintly. “Don’t do that.”

Napoleon, rising from the couch, stopped. “Don’t do what?”

Illya gazed up at him. “The words are so easy for you. It ...” He shook his head. “Sorry.” He hugged himself, looking around the room. “I don’t know what to think yet, what to do.”

Napoleon held his tongue, swallowing the words of dismay that pressed in his throat. He went to the phone and, carefully, precisely, ordered an array of expensive, interesting dishes, along with wine, though he doubted Illya should drink it in his condition. The process calmed his thoughts a little, and when he returned to the couch and sat down, he was able to speak rationally.

“You don’t trust me,” he said then.

Illya met his eyes. “You have forgotten either who you are or who you are talking to.”

Napoleon took a breath. “I mean, you don’t trust what I’m telling you. You don’t trust that I love you. You don’t believe I can say forever and mean it.”

“It was you who said you are not allowed a happy ending.”

“I changed my mind,” Napoleon said.

“Perhaps you should not have. I never thought I would be allowed a happy ending either. That is what I distrust. Not you. Never you.”

Napoleon sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “Then we can make our own happy ending, the fates be damned.”

“Can we?”

“Sure. We’re rich.” Napoleon gave his partner a sidelong smile, his wicked, infectious, wink-without-winking smile. Illya grinned briefly in response, but still shook his head.

“You are rich.”

Napoleon waited.

“Where does that leave me?” Illya asked, hating to have to say it.

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand you.”

“You can do whatever you choose, now, with your time. With your life.”

“So can you.”

“As your ... “ Illya looked around, pointedly. “I don’t know the masculine term for it. Doxy? Mistress?”

Distaste wrinkled Napoleon’s brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Napoleon, _you_ are rich.”

Finally Napoleon got it.

“Illya, what’s mine is yours. That’s been true for years now.”

Illya shook his head. “No. You earned your keep and I earned mine. If we shared, it was more or less equally. If we quit, one of us will be penniless.”

“Are you telling me you won’t share my money with me now that I have some?” Napoleon said.

“I cannot be bought,” Illya began.

“I know that—”

“Napoleon. Please. Listen.”

Napoleon forced his mouth to close.

Illya put his hands together, elbows on his knees, and stared at them as he spoke, articulating the thoughts as they came to him. “If I stop working, if I live off your largesse, it will not take very long before you do not respect me. Before I do not respect myself. I cannot be your ... hanger-on, at the mercy of your good will.”

Quietly, Napoleon said, “Illya, you have been at the mercy of my good will on every single mission we’ve gone on. What else is it, when we trust our lives to one another?”

“But this is not about our lives. This is about dignity. My dignity. I’m not a child or a ...”

“The word you used was doxy,” Napoleon said tightly.

Illya sighed, closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t doubt your generosity or your ... love.” He felt his face heat. “It isn’t about you at all. It’s about how I need to live in order to be able to face myself in the mirror each morning.” He looked up at his partner, asking for understanding.

Napoleon took a deep breath. “Then we won’t quit,” he said — and held up a hand as Illya started to shake his head. “I am not leaving you to some goddamned new partner who won’t have the faintest idea how to cover your insane, risk-taking behind when you go off on one of your harebrained plots.”

Illya opened his mouth to protest.

“No,” Napoleon said. “You’ve told me what you can and can’t do. I’m telling you the same thing. I can’t quit while you’re still in the field. And if I get killed watching your back it’ll be your own damn’ fault. You’ll inherit all of this—” He waved a hand — “and I hope you choke on it.”

Illya chuckled weakly. “Money doesn’t fix everything, does it?”

“It would if you’d let it.” Napoleon turned and wrapped his arms around his partner. “You are the most difficult, hard-headed pain in the ass I’ve ever known,” he said low, into Illya’s left ear, then brushed his cheek across his silky hair.

Illya slid his arms about him and laid his head on Napoleon’s shoulder, then laughed softly. “I don’t know any other way to be.”

“Eventually we’ll have to quit,” Napoleon said, stroking his partner’s hair. “Then we’ll be living off my money. What then?”

“You’re looking very far ahead,” Illya warned. “What if—”

“If we’re killed it won’t matter.”

Illya lifted his head, pulled back to look at Napoleon. “I was going to say what if you get tired of me before then? Or I get tired of you?”

Napoleon smiled. “We haven’t even made love yet and already you’re sick of me?” His smile broadened at the faint blush that touched his partner’s face. Sourly Illya said:

“I’ve been sick of you for years, Napoleon. I’ve just gotten accustomed to the nausea.”

Napoleon pulled him closer, as tight as he dared. “You’re lucky you’re just out of the hospital, Kuryakin. I’d give you something you’d never get tired of.” He shivered to feel Illya’s lips on his ear, his breath warm on his cheek.

“You might be just what the doctor ordered.”

A discreet tap at the door startled them both; Illya jumped back, putting an arm’s length of air between them. Napoleon held up a staying hand and called out, “Yes?”

A tall, broad, silver-haired man in a cutaway coat came in. “Sir, the dinner you ordered is on its way up, and I was wondering if you and your guest would prefer to take it in the dining room or here?”

Napoleon glanced at Illya, turned back to the butler. “The dining room is fine, Morgan.”

Morgan bowed fractionally and left, closing the doors silently behind him.

Cringing, Napoleon turned to his partner, who eyed him levelly, expressionless.

Napoleon shrugged. “They came with the apartment. What can I say? I have staff.”

To his astonishment Illya laughed out loud. Napoleon couldn’t recall the last time his partner had done it; he watched, rapt, until Illya fell silent, shaking his head, eyes gleaming.

Napoleon sidled over and wrapped his arms around Illya once more.

“I love you. Did I mention that aspect of things yet?”

Illya relaxed into his embrace. “I think so. But we’d better go eat before your ... staff returns.”

“Are you making fun of my staff?” Napoleon said, rising and pulling his partner to his feet. The blanket fell to the couch; Illya glanced down Napoleon’s body.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, low.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Napoleon edged away. “I’ve waited too long. Don’t start something you can’t finish, agent Kuryakin.”

Illya marched past him. “We’ll talk about that after dinner.” He went to the doors, slid them both wide with a dramatic flair, and turned. “Are you coming?”

Shaking his head, Napoleon said, “Not yet. You’re asking for it, partner.”

“On the contrary. I’m demanding it. But dinner first.”

Napoleon followed his partner to the dining room, thoughts of food far from his mind.

Over dinner — mushrooms, coulis and oven roasted tomatoes; filet mignon with sesame seeds and truffle sauce, potato vegetable strudel and green beans, followed by lemon panne cotta with meringue and mixed berries, petits fours and chocolates — Napoleon watched his partner gradually droop, though he tried not to show it. When he raised a spoon of berries  — shaking — and then lowered it back to the dish, Napoleon put his own spoon down.

“That’s enough. You need to sleep.” He got up, came around the table.

Illya sighed. “Napoleon, I’m perfectly capable —”

“Here are your choices.” Napoleon stood beside Illya’s chair. “I can drive you home if you prefer. I would rather you stayed here. I have a guest room if you would rather use that. It might be best, although I would prefer that you slept with me, since all you’re going to be doing is sleeping.”

Illya pushed his chair back and got up. “I need to shower. I have hospital all over me.”

Napoleon shook his head. “Not unless I’m in there with you. I didn’t go through all this to see you slip in the bath and crack that skull of yours.” He took his partner by the arm and led him out of the dining room.

The butler, on his way from the kitchen, stopped to see them depart.

“Morgan, you can clean up in there and then go,” Napoleon said.

“Very good, sir.”

“Very good, sir,” Illya mocked under his breath as Napoleon steered him down the corridor to the bedrooms.

In the marble and brass palace that was the master bath, Illya pulled free of his partner with a curse. “I can bathe myself.” He started to work his sweater over his head.

Napoleon closed the polished mahogany lid of the toilet and sat down, arms crossed. “This ought to be good.” Despite his jokes he watched like a hawk for any sign of dizziness as his partner methodically stripped. Illya pulled off the surprisingly small bandage under his ribs. Napoleon started to protest.

“It’s fine,” Illya said, and stepped into the glass-walled shower.

Napoleon saw the wavery shape of his partner turn on the faucet and lean on the wall, letting steaming water pour down on him. He got up, quickly collected Illya’s old clothes and tossed them in the hamper, then turned on the towel warmer. His aunt, like her nephew, stinted on no physical comforts. Then he sat back down and watched his partner wash himself through the slightly opaque glass; the leisurely motions of the cloth over his body, though due to exhaustion, were hypnotically sensual.

Steam rose, wafting through the room, carrying the faint mild scent of soap. Napoleon breathed it in, seeing in his mind’s eye Illya’s hands gliding firmly over his wet skin. He shifted, suddenly needing a little more space between his legs. Denim was not a very forgiving fabric. His teeth were clenched by the time Illya shut off the water and reached out for a towel.

“Are you all right?” Napoleon asked, hoping for his partner’s sake that Illya would wrap that towel around himself before stepping out. No recently injured man would survive what Napoleon would be forced to do otherwise.

“I’m fine.” Illya came out, decently covered, and took up another towel to dry his hair.

“Robes there next to the towel rack,” Napoleon pointed, rising and leaving the bathroom. Fires were laid in both the master and guest bedrooms. Napoleon gazed at the hearth in his room, wondering if he should presume, or just wait and let Illya decide where he would sleep.

Maybe a little nudge ... he knelt at the hearth and started a small but inviting fire in his own fireplace, then, knowing Illya’s penchant for fresh air, opened the window a little. Warm but not stifling. Perfect.

Illya came out wrapped in a deep blue robe and looked around the room. Napoleon said:

“Your choice. I can start the fire in the guest bedroom if you want.” He indicated the doorway, and the door of the guest room across the hall.

Illya gazed at him a moment, and Napoleon knew his partner was aware of his arousal.

“You don’t need to,” Illya said; it took Napoleon a moment to remember what he was referring to. He headed for the door and Napoleon’s heart sank.

“I need to shower,” he said abruptly. “Make yourself at home. Shout if you need anything.” He passed his partner and went into the bathroom, reminding himself sternly that Illya was just out of the hospital. _He needs rest, you selfish bastard_.

He left the door ajar and quickly flung his own clothes into the hamper, stepping into the shower enclosure. He turned on the water, adjusted it, and looked down at his erection, laughing softly at himself. Napoleon Solo, the great lover, reduced to a handjob in his own shower.

For now. He told himself that again as he took himself in hand, seeing his partner’s nude shape behind the glass once more, blurred, slowly moving the washcloth over his body, over his chest, down, stroking between his legs, warm, wet, hard...

His balls tightened abruptly and he gasped as he came. _That was quick_. Just from picturing his partner touching himself. He stroked the last few spurts from his cock, calming his ragged breath, and chuckled again at himself as he washed. It was a good thing he’d taken matters into his own hands or he’d never be able to sleep tonight with his partner in the next room.

He dried off vigorously and strolled nude into his bedroom. And stopped.

Illya lay naked in the middle of his bed, golden on the burgundy comforter, eyes closed, one knee bent, one square, sturdy hand stroking a healthy red-gold erection.

Fire surged into Napoleon’s face, throughout his body, like a lightning bolt into his cock. He made a sound — he had no idea what — and Illya’s head turned languorously toward him, eyes half-opening.

“Come here,” he said.

Napoleon moved toward the bed, his blood hammering, more solid than liquid, under his skin. Illya let go of his erection to shift upward on the pillows, eyes on his partner. Napoleon didn’t wait to be asked. He climbed onto the bed, his body a canopy over his partner’s, arms braced on either side. Illya reached up and pulled him down into a biting, hungry kiss.

Napoleon jerked himself away, dizzy, burning. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he growled, panting, holding himself up away from his partner’s golden body. “Jesus, Illya. You just got out of the hospital.”

Holding his gaze, his own eyes deep-blue, rich with desire, Illya said whispered, “You aren’t going to make me take matters into my own hands, are you, Napoleon?”

He reached down to stroke his erection again. Napoleon’s eyes followed the movement, and his own cock howled at him.

“Bastard,” he said, lowering himself slowly, slowly over Illya’s chest, until his mouth and tongue just touched the warm skin beneath him. Illya squirmed and Napoleon clenched his fists and his will when the uncontrollable movement made his cock throb. _Not yet. Slowly._

He delicately tasted his partner’s flat nipples, teasing them erect. Illya let his hands fall to his sides; his chest rose and fell in labored breaths. Careful to avoid the stitched wound on Illya’s side, Napoleon tasted his way down the Russian’s sternum to the hard flat muscle of his stomach, the dusting of wiry hair below. Napoleon gently rubbed his face against his partner’s groin.

“Napoleon...” Illya groaned, arching his back. His hard cock pressed against Napoleon’s adam’s apple, surprisingly cool against Napoleon’s skin.

“You are beautiful,” he said, his eyes prickling as he rose up to look at his partner’s face.

Illya’s eyes were closed, his back still arched, his fingers clenching and unclenching in the comforter. “Napoleon...” he breathed.

Napoleon stroked his hands down Illya’s muscled thighs, holding him in place as he tasted Illya’s erection, licking the tip as if it were a lollipop, tasting his partner, the surprisingly familiar flavor of sex and urgency at that silky curve. He backed away again for a moment, his own erection a rock of aching need, and let his eyes worship the writhing body under him.

“Please...” Illya whispered, and Napoleon embraced his hard cock with his mouth, prepared to draw back as Illya surged upward, pumping, needy, moans and gasps escaping his mouth as he shivered under Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon grabbed his own hungry cock as he sucked at Illya’s, licking, lightly raking his teeth along the golden length until Illya shuddered, coming into his mouth as Napoleon squeezed his own cock, blind with the ecstasy of his own and his partner’s release. He swallowed the hot thick fluid, over and over, keeping his mouth around his partner’s cock until Illya finally collapsed limp on the bed, gasping for breath.

Napoleon worked his own cock again, once, twice, and came, spurting across his own hand, across his partner’s already-wet thighs.

“God...” he exhaled the word as his body trembled. Finally he relaxed, leaning on his partner’s sweat-damp, panting chest but careful to not put too much of his weight on Illya.

The Russian’s arms slid around his shoulders, holding him hard as Illya whispered in Napoleon’s ear:

“You.” A ragged breath. “And me.”

Napoleon inhaled the warm scent of his partner’s body. “Forever.” He laid his head against Illya’s heart, feeling the beat gradually slow, feeling the hard grip of Illya’s arms ease as his partner drifted into sleep.

Napoleon raised his head, a few inches, enough to see the sated, contented look on Illya’s face. “Forever,” he said again, and relaxed against his partner.

~*~*~

Napoleon was awakened by movement in his bed. He shifted, feeling strong arms around him, and relaxed with a smile as he heard Illya say in his ear, quite matter-of-fact: “I have the solution.”

“To?” Morning light oozed gently, pleasantly, through the curtains.

“The problem.”

“Did we have a problem?” Napoleon said, easing his body closer, his hips moving gently against his partner’s hip.

“One small issue,” Illya said. “This constant risk of imminent death. Perhaps you recall that it was mentioned in passing last night?”

“Your Ph.D. wasn’t in sarcasm by any chance, was it?” He let his hand trail down his partner’s chest, down to the curling hairs above his cock. “God you feel good. What the hell have I been thinking?”

Illya’s hand shot down, quick as a rattler, to seize Napoleon’s wrist.

“Not yet. I’ve already proven I have no self control where you are concerned.”

Napoleon’s brows flew. “No self control? How long have we been partners?”

Illya would not be deflected. “We need to talk about this first.”

Napoleon sighed, relaxed his hand. When Illya let go, he rose up on one elbow. “Yes? You have the solution.” He let his fingers trail over his partner’s ribs.

“Yes.” The Russian looked pleased with himself. “That Ph.D. you mentioned. I can finally put it to work.”

Napoleon stopped his gentle tickling. “The labs? Do you really want to leave Section 2?”

“If I go back to the labs, you can quit without worrying about me, and I can keep my job and my self respect.”

“But to give up field work...”

“I would also be giving up the risk that you might be killed,” Illya said softly. “Do you think that doesn’t matter to me? It was never the idea of your quitting active status that troubled me. I don’t want to lose you. Not to your aunt’s money and not to a bullet or a bomb.”

“Hey.”

Illya waited.

“So you love me?” Napoleon said softly, sliding his hand across Illya’s stomach and kissing the nipple at eye level.

Illya rolled his eyes. He was too happy to argue, though it went against his grain — against his life — to admit such a weakness.

The phone rang. Napoleon sat up, quickly pressed a kiss on his startled partner’s mouth, and answered the phone at the bedside. Illya half listened.

“Solo.”

Illya smiled. Even at home Napoleon answered that way; always on duty.

“Yes sir.”

Illya’s half-listening went to full at the surprise in Napoleon’s tone. That was his Waverly “yes sir,” and that meant one thing.

“I see. Sir, regarding the matter we discussed in your office...” A long pause. “Exactly, sir.” Another long pause. Illya sat up, propped himself on pillows, and watched his partner’s face, but was unable to read anything except attention. “Yes sir. Yes. I’ll call you back as soon as possible, sir.” Looking at Illya, Napoleon slowly returned the phone to its cradle.

Illya asked, “Why didn’t he use the communicator?”

“Because we’re both on leave.”

“We are?”

“I’m on personal and you’re on medical. We’re not on duty. He was ...” Napoleon’s face quirked briefly. “Asking. He wants us to go to Argentina in a week. Castiglione is there.”

Illya closed his eyes. He’d known this would happen. They both had. He forced his eyes open again.

“What do you want to do, Napoleon?”

“I want to do what you want to do,” Napoleon said immediately. He glanced at the phone. “Illya,” he said. “Were we idiots?”

“To think we could simply stop, as if we were bankers, or garbage collectors?” Illya finished the thought for his partner.

Napoleon crossed his legs, touching Illya only with his gaze. His hands rested clenched on his knees.

“I don’t want to lose you. Not now.”

“Have you stopped caring about the rest of the world?” Illya asked softly. “Have I?”

Napoleon’s eyes fell shut, and he shook his head. “I think we forgot who we are. Or part of who we are.”

Illya laid his fingertips on Napoleon’s cheek. Napoleon leaned into the touch, laid his own hand over his partner’s.

“I will not lose you,” he said.

“No,” Illya replied.

Napoleon opened his eyes again, the decision in them clear.

Illya nodded. Strangely, he felt no conflict inside. This felt right. Or maybe just inevitable. There would be a last time. But not yet.

“Call Mr. Waverly.”

 

The End


End file.
